


violence of my own touch

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2013-2014, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Daddy Kink, Dom Drop, Dom Louis Tomlinson, Dom/sub, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Genderfluid Character, Impact Play, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Nonbinary Character, Sub Harry Styles, Top/Bottom Versatile Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Unreliable Narrator, Where We Are Tour, harry is an annoying aquarius the whole fic, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-04-19 03:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Louis hasn’t said anything, but Harry knows something is wrong. Harry’s rut had ended a few days ago, and Louis had kept him under as best as he could.----Title fromViolent Touch by DB Richardson.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 233





	violence of my own touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HappyPrincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyPrincess/gifts).

> This is for someone who I have slowly gotten closer to in these past few months, Nina. They asked for angst and BDSM and alpha/alpha, but this turned into more of angst, gender shit, and alpha/alpha. 
> 
> I am so glad for them, their support and their friendship. I hope you like it, even if it's not quite what the original prompt was!
> 
> This turned out much longer than I thought it would and I am actually happy with the outcome for once. 
> 
> Massive thank you to Jen and Hima for beta-ing!

\\\

The television crackles in front of them, backlighting Louis’ shape. Harry tries to concentrate on just him, the way his shoulders span out when he rocks back on to him. His breath hitches as Louis sinks deeper on his cock and squeezes him breathless. But then the nasally voice of the _ET _presenter breaks his concentration.

“Welcome back to _ET_’s Most Eligible Alpha of the Year countdown. Right before the commercial break, we made it all the way to number two, congratulations, Idris Elba! And beating him out for this year’s number one most eligible alpha…. Harry Styles! That’s right! Yummy boybander Harry Styles is all grown up and is…” 

“—Harry,” Louis says, tone sharp, and Harry’s eyes flick back to him. Louis looks concerned, brow slightly furrowed. He fixes his fringe, glancing over his shoulder to see where Harry’s attention has gone, then snorts and turns back to Harry, sighing loudly. Harry can almost tell what he’s going to say. _Just ignore it, babe. Not like it matters_. It’s a conversation they’ve had dozens of times now. “It’s a load of rubbish, and you know that. Why are you letting it bother you so much?” Louis sounds impatient as he rubs hard at his eye.

“I’m not. It doesn’t,” Harry lies, even though his cock’s flagging. Louis takes a moment, assessing him carefully. He looks tired and suddenly, he shifts up, lifting off of him completely.

“Sure you’re not,” Louis sighs out and the accusation stings, because it’s true.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out, his fingers gripping weakly at Louis’ hips. He gets slapped away, and his throat closes a little. “I can keep—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not in the mood anymore. Tired anyway,” Louis says, sighing again. He grabs a wet wipe off the bedside table and wipes his own thighs and down his bumcrack. Harry lies back, listens to the air conditioning to stop his heart from contracting as Louis collapses beside him and tosses his arm around his middle. His fingers stroke lazy circles and he tucks his face into Harry’s neck. “Let’s just go to bed. We have to get up early for that radio show.” He does sound tired, and Harry feels guilty for it.

Louis falls asleep quickly; Harry stays awake until he can’t anymore. 

Something is wrong. 

Louis hasn’t said anything, but Harry knows something is wrong. Harry’s rut had ended a few days ago, and Louis had kept him under as best as he could. He’d done all of the tricks: kept him collared, kept him plugged up and full on both ends, stayed off his cock. Ruts are always hard for Harry, make him want to crawl out of his skin. He could barely dip into the right headspace, bobbing like a buoy the whole time. He didn’t do a good job, wasn’t good enough.

He knows it takes a lot out of Louis, which is why he usually gives Louis a day of space when it’s over, even if all he wants to do is fall back into the warmth of the sun and be Daddy’s good girl. 

It’s been two days now, and something is wrong.

Paul wakes him up with a loud bang on the door, and Harry jolts awake, heart pounding. The bed is cold and empty. He concentrates hard, sinking into the mattress to find Louis’ heartbeat somewhere in this big hotel. He’s three floors down, to the right. Liam’s rough voice mumbles something. Louis says something. His heart beats and beats. There’s a blowdryer going, so it’s hard to hear much. Harry keeps breathing and kicks up the sheets. 

Harry looks down at himself, down the dried lube and precum splattered against his pubes and his thighs. He fingers at the curls there, swallowing as he rubs through it. He’ll shave today. Maybe that will make him feel better. 

**1 sent text:**

\- Good morning. R u mad at me?

**2 received texts:**

\- Morning.

\- I’m not mad? Just had to get up early and get Z. 

There’s a missing Morning, _love _and the period feels too final. 

**2 deleted texts:**

\- You are mad at me, just say it.

\- You don’t love me anymore. 

**3 sent texts:**

\- Ok. 

\- Sorry

\- ❤️ you. See you down there.

**1 received text:**

\- ❤️

“Congrats, by the way, to Mr. Harry Styles for winning Most Eligible Alpha of the Year. A very prestigious award,” the radio host says with a bright smile. Harry pretends to be bashful, waves her away with a charming grin. She’s a beta, so he’s not worried about her falling all over herself over him—though sometimes that happens anyway. “So, tell us, you got your eye on anyone? Any lucky omega out there?”

Harry laughs. “No, no. I don’t think, not for a long time.” Not _ever_, actually.

“I get it, I get it. Doing a little shoppin’ ‘round?” Harry smiles again, can hear Louis gritting his teeth. “I wouldn’t put it that way. Sounds a bit demeaning when you say it like that,” Harry says calmly. He catches Louis’ eye in the camera, and he looks so fucking proud that it’s worth it for the headlines that come after.

—————

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts, it feels so good. Harry pushes his ass up even more, leans into the hard crack of the paddle. “What do you say?” Daddy hums, sounds so pleased with him, and it makes all the blood flow back down to his hard, trapped cock. His head is dizzy dizzy cotton and fuzz, and he smiles.

“Thank you, Daddy. Again,” he pants into the pillow. He can feel drool dripping down his slick-wet mouth. His lips feel swollen from sucking Daddy earlier and he wants something to fill his mouth now too. Wants to be full from both ends, like always. 

Daddy does what he wants, hits him again, even harder. He shouts, the sting of it making his cunt twitch. “Harder, — please, thank you, thank you thank you.” Daddy smacks him again and again, ass red hot and jiggling with each hit. He puts the paddle down, uses his hands, and Harry loses count, but it hits the fat of his ass — _smack, smack, smack_ and then the more sensitive backs of his thighs. Daddy pinches him hard, laughing as he does, and Harry howls, wanting to scramble away from the pain. “Hold yourself up,” the words tugging at his spine before he even processes it. 

He’s shaking but straightens himself back up where he’d slipped. Shows Daddy that he’s good, arches his back even more and sways a little to show off his pretty, cherry-red ass. “Sorry, Daddy. Thank you.”

“That’s alright, baby. Doing so good. Feel good?”

“Feel so good, thank you, Daddy,” he slurs, tongue lead-heavy. His breathing comes out in an even, heavy wash and it’s harder to keep his eyes open when the pain bleeds into pleasure, dripping into him like an IV.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good girl.” Harry moans and giggles helplessly at that, pushing back again, asking for more. His ass throbs, and Daddy reaches down, squeezing his balls hard. It hurts so fucking bad, tears spring in his eyes, but Daddy doesn’t stop, keeps squeezing his swollen, heavy cock. He strokes him off quick and hard, and Harry wants to shy away because it _hurts_, but he stays still, he’s Daddy’s good girl. He’s a good girl, perfect omega cunt dripping with slick. 

He fucks into Daddy’s fist, miserable grunts coming out of his throat. It hurts and he needs to come, but the ring is tight around him, choking off his ugly knot. He’s only going to come from his cunt today. He only wants Daddy’s fingers in his pussy, pressing down his tongue and his cock stretching him wide until he’s loose and he can drip his seed all over the bed. He won’t come until Daddy tells him he can.

“Knot me, please,” he begs, swaying his ass side to side, hoping it looks enticing. He wishes he was wet enough, and it’s like Daddy can read his mind because he pours more slick on him and pushes it in with two fingers, past his tight ring. Harry moans again, greedy for it, fucking back on Daddy’s fingers, and Daddy yanks his hair hard, keeping him upright. “I said stay up. Need you with me when I mount you. When I breed you full,” he says and Harry sobs, his cock throbbing desperately — shamefully turned on. 

Daddy’s cock slides into place, filling up his greedy hole and Harry’s body bows to it. His thighs tremble as Daddy circles his hips and kisses his shoulder, so sweet and gentle. He feels small like this, safe and nestled in these sheets, ass up and full to the brim. He reaches back to spread himself, just like how Daddy likes it. He likes looking, likes the way his cock stretches out his hole. He can feel his ass throb underneath his hands.

“You look so fucking good for me, sweetheart,” he pounds in, twisting his hair in his fist again. “So pretty like this.” Harry moans again and Daddy grunts, hips slapping hard against his backside. His prostate feels like a raw nerve every time Daddy’s cock rubs against it. Daddy’s hands cup lovingly up his chest and then the cartilage of his throat and Harry sobs again, swallowing hard just to feel his adam’s apple bob against the warmth of his calloused palm. He presses down, gripping his throat tight, waiting for the air in Harry’s lungs to enter on shaky rasps before he closes, squeezing it shut. 

He’ll have to wear a high collared shirt tomorrow, but his lungs burn so good and he can feel every molecule of Daddy’s thick cock pulsing inside of him when he doesn’t have to concentrate on breathing too. Daddy lets go and Harry gasps, inhaling, sobbing as his cock twitches mercilessly. 

Daddy laughs again. “Are you going to come?” he asks, almost mockingly, shifting his palm up to stuff his fingers into Harry’s drooling mouth. “Gonna make a mess out of this bed, aren’t you, love? Your pretty pussy’s gonna squirt just from my cock,” he murmurs, tightening his fingers along Harry’s neck — Harry whines, almost animal as he bucks back and keens, too overwhelmed to say much. His cheeks are sticky with tears and he comes and the world melts beneath him. It’s reaching nirvana just from Daddy’s voice, Daddy’s hands, Daddy’s cock thickening up and plugging him up full of his cum — and Harry deserves none of it. But she’s a good girl right now, so maybe she does.

—— 

Bright lights. 

It’s like being on a swing and staring at the sky and the drop in your belly when you come down. It’s like lying on a trampoline, soaking up all of that sun. Daddy combs through his hair. He kisses his face and his neck, but the sky is too bright. Harry turns to him and can’t open his eyes. “Tickles,” he says. Louis’ fingers stroke him, and he can feel it, every once in a while. But he’s not inside of himself right now and doesn’t want to be.

_Baby. Come back now. I miss you, and I want to sleep, but I have to make sure you’re okay. Drink water, please. Drink this to grow_.

Harry opens his mouth. Cold slips down his throat.

_Eat this, too. Eat this to shrink down_.

It’s a grape, and it bursts in his mouth. There’s no rabbit to follow.

_I love you. Do you love me? Can you hear me?_

He keeps talking. Mostly about the future, because being in the present feels like quicksand beneath their feet and Louis always wants to be prepared for their inevitable hard landing. _I want a garden. To grow something there. I’ve heard zucchini ain’t bad to grow and me mum would get a kick out of me trying. And a dog. _

“What else?” Harry says out loud. 

“And you.”

“Love you,” he says, phantom voice. He can make his mouth move, and that’s good. Louis kisses his mouth, and Harry smiles. He opens his eyes, slowly, the world coming into focus slowly. Dark shapes first. Louis’ eyes, his nose.

“There you are.” Daddy’s voice is a warm cup of cocoa, and he smiles back.

“I’m here,” he says, voice still soft, edging along that dream space. He covers Louis’ lips with the flat of his palm. Daddy kisses it, his scratchy beard making Harry giggle again. “Tickles. Love you.”

“Love you, good girl.”

“I am a good girl.”

“You’re my good girl.”

“Yours,” he sighs, contentedly. “You can sleep now, Daddy. I promise. I’m here, and I can sleep, too, we’ll wake up together, okay?”

\-----------------

“Do you need anything?” 

“No,” Louis says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Harry watches the ash and ember dust his fingertips. His fingers dangle too far away from Harry, even though their knees are pressed together. Harry presses in closer, wanting badly to climb into his lap, even though they’re with the others in the dark-tinted Range Rover. The window is cracked open, and Louis flicks ash out, his eyes glued to the palm trees lining Highland Avenue. They still have another 20 minutes until they can get to their hotel. Each moment that passes, the further away Harry feels. The engine rattles their bones.

Louis finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt out the window. Harry doesn’t even chastise him. He finally turns and looks at Harry for the first time in five long minutes. He smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corners, but then he looks away again just as fast, and the world drains of color. 

“Are you sure you don’t… need anything?” 

“M’ just tired,” Louis says, sighing. He runs a hand down his face. “I’d tell you if I needed anything, and I don’t need anything. Just sleep. Just tired, y’know what I mean?” He should know what’s wrong without being asked. It’s his job, his role. If he doesn’t, then what’s the point? What’s his place? There is nothing Harry can provide. He simply doesn’t have the instincts to. He can’t take care of his alpha because he isn’t built for it, and it’s glaringly, painfully obvious now. All signs point to it. Inadequate and wrong. 

He can feel the straw breaking the camel’s back, the itch inside him to keep pushing until he gets what he wants: Louis turning to face him and telling him that he doesn’t need him anymore. Louis reaches over in delicate movement and flattens his palm against Harry’s thigh and exhales, soul tired.

\---------

Harry has to be good. That’s it, he has to be better than he has been, and then Daddy will smile at him, will fill him up inside out, make him pretty and good. He’ll burn the bad out of him; all of that sick sadness that has nowhere to go. And maybe if he’s good enough, Daddy will let him keep his cock in his mouth, warm him up all night; maybe he’ll let Harry have his cock in his cunt all night, too. He’ll mate him and breed him and Harry will be perfect then, perfectly tailored for him. 

He kisses Louis, breathing harshly out his nostrils, fingers curled up against his chest. Louis’ taste makes him dizzy and hungry, crawling up his throat for more of it. Louis groans, sucking his bottom lip, and his fingers press into the curve of Harry’s ass, squeezing him. Louis pauses, opens his eyes, and takes his time, smiling a little as he traces Harry’s brow with his fingertips. Harry takes his wrist and leads it, sucks his fingers in his mouth, rubbing the ridges of his knuckles with the top of his lips and swirling his tongue as Louis pulls them away, letting out a small chuckle. 

Harry’s mouth feels empty as his head swirls in confusion. “Jesus, Harry, just wanted to look at ya. Let me look,” Louis whispers, his brows loosening. 

“Sorry,” he whispers back and tries to relax as Louis pets his face. Harry closes his eyes, tilts his face up, and Louis kisses the corner of his mouth, strokes his thumb slowly against the peach fuzz of his chin growing in.

Harry anticipates the next kiss and waits and waits but gets nothing. He blinks open his eyes, but Louis just inhales for a long time. He wants to ask what’s wrong, but the words never go past his throat, not when Louis’ eyes dull, and his warm hand recedes away like the pull of a tide. 

“Let’s go to bed, baby. I’m so tired,” Louis says, voice crumbling. Harry feels himself nod, even though he doesn’t understand why. They haven’t had sex in three days. 

—————

Zayn snorts so hard that it makes Harry dizzy watching him as he swings toward Liam, giggling like a mad man, the sound of it like pin drops to Harry. Zayn shakes with his laughter as Louis’ hand comes to his waist, to his sweaty skin pulled over the bones of his ribs. He’s delicate all over when he scents Louis’ neck for comfort. Harry’s blood freezes over. 

“Slow down, Zayn. Slow down—what the fuck, Paul?” Louis spits out, livid. “Why the fuck didn’t you stop him, you stupid fuck? You’re supposed to be taking care of him. I turn around one time, and he’s fucking gone. We have a long day tomorrow!” 

“Don’t you fucking talk to me that way! I told him no—”

“He hasn’t slept! He’s almost in heat, and he’s not gonna sleep again! You’re trying to fucking kill him, are ya? You’re going to kill him—get off of Liam, Zayn. Get off of him, mate—give him to me.” Louis’ arms hold Zayn like an anchor point, and jealousy burns Harry from the inside out. He glances down at the stash still on the table.

“I’ve got him, Louis. I can have him tonight, look,” Liam says quietly, glancing up at Harry, locking eyes with him, guilty. Louis looks up, and his hand slips a little from Zayn’s waist. 

“—_Harry_,” Louis says, sternly. _Yeah, look at me look at me look at me, please. _

Harry clenches his jaw in bitter victory, dips the little spoon into the powder, and snorts hard, rubbing it in until he can’t fucking breathe. 

“Sorry,” Harry slurs out, not meaning it. Louis’ eyes harden, and he comes to Harry, takes his arm, digs his thumb into his elbow ditch, and crowds him up against the wall so he doesn’t slip.

“Harry," he says, voice harsh in Harry's ears. The sound of it splinters out into a million horrible pieces, and he can't focus on anything, his eyes zoom around the three freckles by Louis’ mouth, then to his eyelashes, then to the feeling of his thumb digging into his arm. His skin hums. He grins widely, cold air on his gums.

"Look at me, Daddy. You didn't say _I love you_ this morning," he smiles wider. 

“Don’t do this to me right now. I can’t deal with this right now, and I am _not_ going to do this, Harry.” 

“But you didn’t say you love me. Why didn’t you say you love me this morning?” 

“I love you, of course I love you. But you’re making it—”

Zayn lets out a deafening laugh, and there’s shuffling behind them. Louis looks over to them, “You good?” he says to… not him. To Liam. Liam nods.

Harry’s hands cup Louis’ beautiful, perfect face. His Daddy. _Not Zayn’s—_and forces his face back. He breathes harder, nostrils flaring. 

“Look at me,” Harry growls, hands shaking. Louis takes his wrist, grips him hard, and forces him off, eyes flashing dangerously. He makes a warning sound in the back of his throat, and Harry’s spine stiffens as he bares his own teeth. It doesn’t mix well, the want of him submitting and his instincts to get his hackles up. His stomach starts churning, his breath goes shallow. 

“Come with me, right now.”

Louis pulls them to their room. Harry’s back hits the covers, he thinks. His heartbeat is going too fast, _thump thump thump_ to the rhythm of Louis kicking off his boots.

“You’re so sweaty. Shit shit shit,” Louis mumbles, panicked. Everything vibrates. It hurts to be here, flesh pulled over bone, sheep pulled over wolf. Louis is going to _see_ all the ugliness spread inside of him spill out. He tries to shovel it all back in, panic flooding his chest.

“I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to—,” Harry says over and over again.

“Then you shouldn’t have snorted that shit! I knew it wasn’t clean. This is your fault, and now if you—what if you die? Harry, you have to stop doing this. I can’t do this,” he sobs, fisting the covers. 

“Daddy, I want it to stop, please. Please I don’t want to think anymore.” Harry keeps visualizing the gruesome way his body fits together. The not-rightness. _Put me back together. Make me feel right. Stitch me up._

“I’m not your _fucking daddy _right now. I’m just Louis. I’m _just_ Louis, do you get it? I can’t...I can’t be that right now. I’m not—I can’t,” he says, voice humming like a dangerous live wire.

Harry starts to laugh a little, grinds his teeth, feels his jaw clench involuntarily. It’s hard to anchor himself back into his body, his soul expanding too far outside. Harry reaches for Daddy. “Please, please, please...need Daddy. Need Daddy. Need him.”

“I’m not. I can’t,” Louis says firmly. “I hate that you’re doing this. I hate this. Do you hear me? Are you even going to remember this? Harry? Jesus, sit up, please. Sit up, drink this water. I’m—going to get ice. Don’t fucking die.” 

“We haven’t had sex in a week.”

“What?” 

“You don’t want me anymore because I don’t have a real cunt?” Harry spits out.

Louis stares at him, eyes as hard as steel. “Is that what you think of me? Is that how you think I am?” 

Harry’s silent, nostrils flaring with the lump in his throat filled with the hard-to-swallow truth. 

The door slams, and the cells in his body scream for Louis.

\---------------------- 

Louis doesn't come back. Harry doesn't sleep until 6 am.

Paul wakes him up, and Harry’s mouth is dry, his heart is shriveled up. Louis’ things are gone. 

“Niall and Liam and Louis are going ahead of us while you and Zayn rest up.” 

“Did Louis…”

“You know I’m not gonna get involved in it,” Paul says. He opens up the second pair of curtains to let the light flood through. “I am sorry, though. For what we put on you.”

Harry nods. It doesn’t change anything, really. There will be worn roads to travel by bus. An album and a half to record. Words will be said that can’t be taken back.

Carolyn puts him in a patterned shirt with little motorcycles on it. He wants to cut a piece of time with the shears Lou uses to trim his hair and slip into it, back to the past. Someone else moves him like a puppet on a string to line up with the other boys, but he can barely concentrate on anything, it hurts to try and even _look _at Louis, so he stares somewhere above his head the whole interview. 

\---------------- 

How does he say he’s sorry when he doesn’t feel sorry about what he’s said? 

The break they’re allowed is two weeks long. The boys go home for Christmas. Harry says sorry to his mum and Gemma and stays in LA.

LA is a sprawling expanse. It feels different every time he comes here; there’s something new to discover, a new something or other. People laugh and go to the beach and soak up the sun, wear coats that are too thick for the mild winter because it’s fashionable to. 

Harry goes to a few parties to catch up with friends he hasn’t seen in ages. They’re all so _LA_, but they’re kind to him. They get it strictly _because _they’re so LA. He doesn’t think he can go back to Holmes Chapel and see the people who love an older echo of himself he doesn’t know anymore. He left a 16-year-old boy there, and he can’t pick him back up, don those curls or unweary smiles. He’s nearly 20, and he feels so heavy.

Everyone in LA barely knows him. He likes it that way.

A friend of a friend invites Harry over for an early Christmas party. Everyone there’s an acquaintance but not for long. Despite never having been in this Hollywood Hills home before, Harry shuffles to the kitchen to start making hot cocoas for everyone. There’s a pregnant woman sneaking slivers of brie cheese in there, and they get to talking. She still has 4 months to go, so she’s not showing too much, but she’s absolutely glowing. Harry feels a numb emptiness inside that he can’t explain and something jealous, too, nestled in the apex of his heart, but he smiles at her, she’s so lovely, and she’s so lucky. 

She asks him what he’s doing here in LA alone.

“I hurt someone I love, and I don’t know how to say sorry,” Harry says, spooning hot cocoa out into mugs. 

“Well, I’ve been married for 8 years, and I’ve learned you don’t go to bed angry.” She bumps her hip into his, and he smiles at her as he hands her a cocoa.

He goes to bed angry anyway.

He goes to bed horny and sad, too. He watches porn for an hour, hand half-heartedly around his dick, staring at the ridges of it, the pre-formed knot there. His rut is approaching, and he wishes it wasn’t, the same way he wishes it didn’t every time. Harry studies it, his mind fuzzy from a smoked down joint. His foreskin blooms when he tugs down and reveals his cockhead, shiny and a little sticky, but not wet the way Louis makes him, every time. 

The first time his knot formed, it ripped the skin of his cock, made him bleed and left scars that are faint now. Harry strokes himself, too hard and too tight, grunting, jaw clenching as he watching his fist work over his big cock, fucking himself harder, punishing. He holds his breath, his chest and neck getting hot and tight as he digs his thumb into the slit. He isn’t even close to coming, and his cock starts to hurt, but he wants it to hurt more. He shoves two fingers into his hole, too dry, rim protesting from the intrusion for a moment before it gives because his body is so fucking hungry to be filled. 

He sobs and pretends Louis is with him, murmuring to him, dirty, slutty things that heat his skin; Louis stuffing his fingers knuckle-deep into his mouth to let him suck on them. 

Harry reaches for his phone and dials Louis. He doesn’t know what time it is back home right now, but he knows that it’s late and he might not pick up. The dial tone spins his head, and when it goes to voicemail, he’s brokenly chanting, _Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis, god, fuck, Louis, fuck me, fuck me please, _fingers stretching his hole, but it’s not enough, it just isn’t. 

So he hangs up, tosses the phone away. 

The bed’s too big, his skin feels like it’s hovering above him. He takes his hands off himself and starts to cry. It’s never a pretty ordeal. He cries about the things he said to hurt Louis and about the look on Louis’ face; the tiredness in his body and his mind and for the way his soul doesn’t fit in this body all the time. He cries about how he wants a baby, what it’d be like to carry and to hold his tummy and feel a heartbeat; what it would be like to have a softer voice. He cries because he’s so tired of not knowing what he wants, of not knowing himself, for all those moments when he was a little boy who’d wear his mum’s things and spray her perfume on his neck before he scrubbed himself raw in the shower to get it off.

Louis calls him back, like he knows, somehow, even thousands of miles away. Harry’s still crying when he picks up, and Louis sighs, voice sounding sleep-ridden. 

“What are you crying for, love?” 

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, squeezing his eyes shut, tears leaking down the sides of his nose. 

“Okay,” Louis says at first. “Yous gonna tell me what you’re thinking about, yet?” 

“I dunno. It’s a lot.” 

Louis hums. “You don’t have to say right now. Eventually. Can’t just leave me dirty voicemails like that, baby.” 

"It’s like…I..,” he tries to start, the lump in his throat solidifying again. He sighs, miserably because he can't say it. He can't even think about it for long. “Nevermind. Miss you.” 

“Miss you, too. Come home.” 

“I will. I will, I promise.” 

“I love you, Harry.” 

“I know you do,” he says, voice breaking on another wave of tears. 

“Do you?” 

Harry swallows, because that stings. 

“M’sorry. Was a cheap shot. Still a bit sore over you—you know. I’m sorry we weren’t having sex like we used to. I’ve been feelin’ like— I can’t be what you need. I’m too tired to take care of you properly, do you know what I mean? Been so fuckin’ exhausted with everything, and I just want to hold you and fuck you like normal—like normal people do for a while. All vanilla n’ that.”

“Okay. Yes, okay,” he says, closes his eyes and listens to Louis breathing.

\----

Harry buys a pair of women’s jeans, tucks himself in carefully, and can look at himself in the mirror for the first time in a week. They’re a bit tight, and he has chicken legs, but he’s flat and smooth and unobtrusive. He runs his hand down the muscles of his stomach, imagining what it’d be like to feel a little kick. 

He dreams on the plane ride. It’s a strange mix that doesn’t make much sense. There’s someone pretty in the kitchen of his childhood home. She makes him and Louis tea, and Louis reaches out and holds her hip the way he does Harry’s, but Harry isn’t jealous. Then Harry’s in her place, and Louis’ still got his hands on him. They read a dirty magazine that Harry used to wank to like it’s the morning paper. Harry reads it seriously because he has a test he hasn’t studied for. He wakes up anxious and an hour from landing in London.

He tells Louis about the dream (in his long-winded way). And about LA. And how they should get a house there, maybe, if he’d like. It’d be nice to have somewhere warm to go, somewhere different, when they needed.

A kiss on the cheek. Back pressed to chest. Tea and raspy cigarette voices. 

“Anywhere you go, I’ll go.”

**Author's Note:**

> My gender is a writhing thing in the corner 
> 
> I poke it with a stick every so often to see how it will move.
> 
> My sex is a warm pink alien I cup in my hand
> 
> There is a violence to my own touch that I cannot shake
> 
> When I touch my fingers to a boys palm I am asking him to hand me an answer 
> 
> When I press my lips to a girls mouth I am trying to steal something I've never seen
> 
> When I wrap my arms around a person's waist I am begging to fold them into my ribcage
> 
> And keep them there until I can see the way forward 
> 
> \- [DB Richardson](https://www.powerpoetry.org/poems/violent-touch)


End file.
